She hesitated. I felt she was trembling. Her breath came quickly.
“Mount, and go,” she said. “I—I have risked too much. Besides, thou mayest not discover who I really am. It would be fatal!”
“But thy name?” I urged. She seemed bent upon preserving her incognita, and I was growing impatient. That she was lovely I felt sure. No face could be ugly with those magnificent eyes. “Surely thou wilt not withhold from me thy name?”
She was silent. Her slim, bejewelled fingers closed over mine with a slight pressure as she sighed. Then, lifting her eyes, she replied—
“I am called Zoraida.”
“The daughter of whom?”
“Daughter of the Sun,” she replied, smiling.
“Then thou wilt not tell me the name of thy father?” I said, disappointedly.
She shook her head, replying, “No. To thee I am only Zoraida. My father’s name is of no concern.”
“And may I not carry with me some little souvenir of this strange meeting?” I asked.